Clouded Sulpher

Nothing tumbles holy verses out of my throat 
as quickly as this turbulent flight, suddenly

I am praying again to the god I grew up with, 
a desperate Bismillah to the Most Benevolent,

with Surah Al-Fatihah I open, please
Most Merciful, propel Your mercy onto this cabin

where the bumps are so rough, 
the oxygen masks have dropped,

like dead jellyfish they hang above me, All praise 
be to You, Lord of the Worlds,

Most Benevolent, Most Merciful, O Pilot
of the highest skies, Curator of agitated winds,

this is not the first time
dark clouds have kneeled me

into a begging recitation
of what promised to smooth the panic,

out of my unclotting bloodstream 
ascended no red-eyed recusant,

on land, a beastly unease continued to palpitate 
in my sleep, across my chest,

in my breath like an animal’s severed limb, O
Master of Judgment Day,

though I am calmest when I daydream 
of moving up my own reckoning,

let this not be the way, keep me 
tethered, heights-fearing belted servant

rattling uncontrollably in her seat, 
it is You alone [I] worship

and You alone [I] ask for help, I tried
just minutes ago manifesting steadiness

like the self-help and yoga instructors advise, 
but my open palms are still

a trembling fountain of pouring sweat, O Maker 
of luminous wings, feather these steel flaps

into the angelic kind, blithe and obedient, 
and guide [me] onto the straight path,

or a predictable one unshaken by tumult, I wanted 
a fluttering path that time,

to peel out of myself
and oscillate the air like a clouded sulphur,

the path of those who have received Your grace, 
I wanted my skeleton aloft, airlifted

into a pain-free realm, like the gardens 
described in subsequent chapters,

not the path inflicted with Your wrath, 
not of those gone astray, the turbulence

snaps my head back and forth,
from post to pillar, I slam into the clasped table—

I used to print the clay stone
into my forehead, I had pled for relief

for years, no sacred murmuring 
released me or persuaded You;

when you survive it,
you are always waiting for either two things:

you wait for the courage to take off again, 
and you wait to be punished

Note: The italicized lines in this poem quote directly from the first chapter of the Quran, “The Opening,” or Surah Al-Fatihah.

Read more from Issue 19.1.